Eyes to the Wind
by Palaras Andhek
Summary: Post season 2. Cosima and Delphine each have their own recovery to endure, apart. Ultimately though, they must find their way back to each other. (Rating upped to M for final chapter.)
1. Chapter 1

The fresh air feels good, expanding, contracting coolly in her lungs. The deep breaths don't come for her yet. She can stop where she stands, open her mouth wide and inhale, but the remaining ramparts of her illness stop allowing air midway down her chest. If she breathes too deeply, the oxygen burns, makes her heart skip a beat.

She takes it in, one eager, shallow gulp at a time. In and out, respiring an exhausting, yet blessedly perfunctory rhythm. It's still hard to believe: all those months of hard work and sleepless panic; racking, bloody fits; cashing in her mortal resignation for a feeble peace of mind—all she really achieved, in the end, was this. A steady breath. _In and out._ The only tangible victory that remission has yielded.

There's so much more, of course, figuratively, that she has gained, like the hours spent sitting cross-legged on the floor of the loft, records passed between her and Sarah as they share embarrassing stories from their childhood. The drunken laughter that wells between her and Felix at two in the morning, when she really ought to be resting_._ The brownies, cookies, and cupcakes that Alison bakes for her – an olive branch when the constant fussing turns from endearing to aggravating.

Like this, too: the tiny hand held fast to hers, equally carefree and cautious as she is dragged across the playground towards the swing set. Kira looks back as she leads her, her smile vibrant, and asks, "Can you push me, Auntie Cosima?"

"I know you can swing yourself, Monkey," Sarah intercedes, tone hesitant as she trots along behind them, hands stuffed into the pockets of her leather jacket.

"I go so much higher if someone else pushes me though."

"Well, _I_ can—"

"Sarah," Cosima glances back at her, eyebrows raised, and waves a hand. "It's not like she's asking me to run a marathon. I think I can handle some swings." Sarah wants to protest, she can tell. It's become instinctual, after all these months. Despite what little annoyance she feels, Cosima can't blame her. If she'd had to spend so much time caring for someone, treating them as if they were made of glass, unsure if they would even _wake_ in the morning, the urge to coddle would probably overwhelm her, too. She can at least be thankful that Sarah's brand of cossetting is not as forthright as Alison's.

She feels good today, despite the bite in the mid-October air, the chill that nips at her hands and cheeks. She feels strong, and just to prove that point, she smiles cheekily, pointedly at Sarah, before she grabs Kira by her middle, and lifts her off her feet.

"Come on, Monkey, I'm gonna make you fly!" She sprints the rest of the way to the swing set, Kira giggling in her arms.

"You ass…" It's all Sarah can do to mutter under her breath, shaking her head as a small smile curls over her lips. She still worries, somehow, that the treatment won't hold. Her concerns are valid – ultimately, the treatment will fail. In spite of all the stem cells harvested from Helena's embryos, a permanent solution has yet to be found. Cosima muddles through Ethan's cipher the best she can, but so much still remains hidden from her. She needs a fresh set of eyes on his work. She needs help.

There's a lot that Sarah can do for her now. She can make her sister laugh when her brows knit too tightly, lips pinching in frustration. She can give her a kick in the ass when her stubbornness rears its head – hopelessness a shadow that is never far behind. She can even give her space, if that's what she needs; and intuitively, she seems to understand when it will benefit her the most.

The thing most needed now though, she can see, for reasons both emotional and scientific, is too far away. Though neither of them is willing to say it out loud, she needs a partner. She needs Delphine.

* * *

"Monkey," Sarah calls loudly from her spot on the bench. Kira peeks her head over the top of the jungle gym, eyes wide and inquisitive. "Keep that jacket zipped." Her tone brooks no argument. Cosima almost wants to laugh until her Sarah glances over at her with the same stern expression. "You, too."

"Are you kidding?"

Sarah's face breaks suddenly into a satisfied grin. "Kind of." She pauses. "It _is_ cold though—"

"Yeah, don't go there." Nonetheless, Cosima wraps her arms around herself, bundled up in the red coat that now hangs loosely about her frame. Her appetite hasn't returned yet, not fully. Until it does, her ribs will continue to show.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, both unwilling to tell Kira they must leave. The sun will begin to set in under half an hour. They don't have much time if they plan to make it back home before the street lamps turn on, but neither budge. In truth, Cosima is as soothed by the crisp October air as her niece. Sarah doesn't want to take that from her.

The more she glances at Cosima, the more anxious she begins to feel, however. Not about the impending dark or about the biting chill, the way it raises goosepimples along Cosima's too-pale skin; but about the conversations they haven't been having.

She can't ignore it. Cosima is clever, intelligent, but she's not stealthy. She pretends she's watching Kira as she moves happily, a little clumsily across the monkey bars, but Sarah can see the way her gaze settles just to the left, fixed on some obscure point in the background. Her pupils dilate, glassy and unfocused. It's a look Sarah has become familiar with, ever since they left DYAD.

"Cos." Her sister flinches slightly, blinking as she readjusts her glasses.

"Yeah," she answers, too quickly.

Sarah watches her daughter as she says, "I've been meaning to ask you, recently…" The statement trails off, somewhat awkwardly. Cosima already knows what she's getting at.

"Still nothing." Her posture stiffens, hands folded in her lap in uncharacteristic stillness.

It's been a month since she received any contact from Delphine. When she first arrived in Frankfurt, the calls were sporadic, clipped. In spite of the legitimacy of the operations DYAD were conducting in Germany, Delphine was unconvinced, paranoid. She was fearful; so thoroughly bereft of composure, in fact, that Cosima could hardly imagine it.

All communications were tapped, she'd claimed. Her cellphone, email and other internet activities – all tracked. When they spoke, it was usually in the middle of the night, Delphine's voice choked and breathy over the line of the burner she'd purchased.

Delphine had spent so much of their time in Toronto, exerted so much energy just in trying to hold it together. For Cosima's sake, she'd asserted. Cosima couldn't stand it though. Half the time she'd felt at arm's length, blind to the goings on of her own treatment. It frustrated her endlessly. Delphine would lie beside her each night, hold her, whisper quietly in her ear, but she couldn't deign to bare her own feelings. It made Cosima feel irrational, overly-emotional in comparison.

In the end, she broke, allowing the tears to fall freely on the night that Rachel had abducted Kira. Cosima convinced herself things would be different then. But by the time they woke the next morning, that cool composure had returned.

Over the phone, it seemed she'd gotten what she'd wanted all along – Delphine, unfettered from her pride and self-possession, left raw. Everything in the open. But with her disposition so resigned, having compromised her own mortality, it suddenly felt too much. Over the phone, it felt so wrong.

She kept dreaming of her, beautiful and healthy. Confident, dressed all in white, her body effervescent. She would beckon Cosima forth with her palms open, as if in supplication, telling her not to be afraid. It all seemed so perfect.

The light was too bright though, harsh, the way it is in the middle of the night, when one steps from a darkened hallway into a fluorescent bathroom. She had to blink against it, eyes watering. Her feet couldn't carry her forward fast enough, the breaths ragged and heavy in her throat. Delphine's voice was farther away than her body – too far. It was wrong.

She'd wake sputtering, cold, blood trickling from the corners of her mouth. The emptiness of her bed made her realize she ought to have been more cautious in her wishing.

* * *

_She does not wake with the same ease that she once did. On the best of days, coming to is a process. On the worst, it seems almost an implausibility. _

_The fringes of her dream echo with a far off chime. She ignores it for what seems like several minutes before she can feel herself being shoved, tumbling. Her eyes open blearily, vision swimming from both her lack of frames and the clinging remnants of slumber._

"_Cos… oi, Cosima." It's Felix, tonight. Sarah and Kira stay often, but Cosima feels bad denying the little girl her own bed, if only inadvertently. When they're not around to keep her company, Felix assumes watch. She appreciates it more than any of them can understand._

_She means to mumble some half-hearted response, some offer of recognition, but sputters instead. Beyond her own weak coughing, she can still hear the ringing._

_Felix places a hand on her forehead, his own voice sleepy, but gentle. "Your phone, darling. They've already called once."_

"_Hmm?" She squints, attempting to sit up. She manages to push herself off her back, and clears her throat. "Where 's it?" He presses the phone into her hand. She stares blindly at the screen, the numbers a blur._

"_Unknown number," he supplies._

"'_Kay." She answers, clearing her throat once again. When she speaks up, her voice is raspy. "Hello?" There is only silence. "Hello," she tries again._

_She's about to hang up when she hears her own name, cracking, on the other line. It sounds different, fragmented, but unmistakably tinged with a French lilt. _

_There's a hollowness in her chest then, an odd, fluttering cessation, almost like the dropping of one's stomach, but exactly where her heart ought to be. She lets out a breath._

"_Delphine?" She can't help the questioning inflection that lifts the end of her name. After all this time – weeks, stretched taut and thin beneath the inevitability of death – after all those maddening fever dreams, it's hard to believe she's actually speaking to her. That she's alive. That they're _both_ alive._

_A sound caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh bubbles incredulously on the other end. Her eyes burn, but she smiles, too. _

"_Yeah," Delphine replies. "It's me. I'm here."_

_Her face falls then, because she has no idea where "here" is. It doesn't even matter, she realizes. Because "here" is where she is not.  
_

* * *

"Yeah, well… she was plannin' to make a break, right? Get out from under DYAD's thumb." From her peripheral, Cosima can see Sarah running a hand through her hair, lips pursed. It's the kind of look she sports, she's noticed, when she's trying to say something consoling without being _obviously_ consoling. That her sister has never trusted or really even liked Delphine makes the sentiment only that much more frustrating to her. "A bit of radio silence isn't necessarily a bad thing. She could just be trying to, uh, stay hid, is all."

Cosima concedes a nod. She makes an effort to actually stay focused, keep an eye on Kira. For a kid, she's almost startlingly intuitive. In moments like these, though, she's as oblivious to it all as she should be. For Cosima, it's a welcome distraction.

"She had it perfectly timed," she says quietly. "I know that. If she escaped a month ago, then her hand was forced."

Sarah hums distractedly, struggling to find some explanation that could allay her sister's fears. Despite the sudden sinking in her stomach, the rigidness of her spine though, Cosima doesn't want consoling. She doesn't want Sarah to have to try.

She stands, a little slowly, as the inevitable weariness begins to weigh on her. Buttoning up her coat, she looks down at Sarah and smiles.

"She's smart though. Maybe not as smart as me," she smirks, "but, she has way more experience in double-dealing."

"No shit," Sarah scoffs as she joins her, looking a little shame-faced for it. It's hard for her, giving Delphine any credit; but she does, for Cosima's sake. "She seems, uh… really dedicated. Honestly." She scuffs the ground with the toe of her boot as they walk towards the jungle gym. "Seems like, if she commits to something, then she's got to see it through to the end. Doesn't matter what it takes."

Cosima glances at Sarah, trying to hide her surprise. The insinuation is evident to them both. It's not about _what_ Delphine is committed to anymore, but _who._ She swallows thickly, feeling she should say something more. Say thanks, in some way. Before she has the chance to, though, Kira is running towards them, being scooped into her mother's waiting arms. It's all right, she thinks. As with most things between them, it doesn't need to be said. They both already know.

* * *

_One of the first things she asks, once the pleasantries have subsided, the weight of peril seeming to permeate even the kindest words, is about the bone marrow. She wants to know when the transplant took place, how Cosima's body is taking it. Does she feel any better?_

_Instinct urges her to lie. It seems sensible, somehow. There are thousands of miles between them now. Sending Delphine into a panic isn't going to do either of them any good. _

_Of course, there is still the very real possibility that Cosima will die because of that bone marrow. Without it. The thought of dying, of Delphine not understanding _why_, makes her chest clench, her stomach warm with a nauseating heat. _

_She can't hurt her in that way, can't contribute any more deceit to their already tenuous relationship. More misplaced good intentions. _

"_Listen—" For a second she feels like she might choke, but clears her throat again, roughly. Felix had offered to wait out in the hall while they spoke, but she declined. Truthfully, she just couldn't handle being alone, knowing what she was without. He sits at the edge of the bed now, glancing over his shoulder with obvious concern. She shakes her head._

_Preamble makes it all the more painful somehow, so she simply tells her, "Rachel destroyed Kira's bone marrow." She pauses, clenching her eyes against the vacuous silence on the other end. Shakily, she inhales. "All of it—but," she adds quickly, the sudden hope that enters her voice sounding pitchy, almost disingenuous, "I think I've got it – Professor Duncan's cipher. _And_, not only that, but—"_

"_Cosima." Delphine's voice is coiled unbelievably tight. Even without the aid of non-verbal cues, she can tell she might break. "All the bone marrow?"_

"… _Yeah." She can't even hear her breathe, for a moment._

"_Oh, mon dieu… salope!" Cosima stiffens. __Clearly, Delphine hadn't heard her reassurances. "No… Cosima…" Her voice is watery, _pleading,_ as if there is anything more that can be done. "You do not have—the t-time."_

_Delphine breaks then. Cosima can hear her, on the other line. It's a different sound than she has ever heard from her before. Her previous tears had been remorseful, ashamed. These are despairing. Completely hopeless. _

_The phone nearly drops from her hand with the sudden, cold exhaustion that grips her. She wants to cry, too – thinks she should – but she doesn't have it in her. Instead, she steels her jaw, clutching the phone tighter._

_She'll make this right for both of them, somehow. It doesn't matter whether she should, or if she can. She'll fix it. Her body doesn't know what else to do._

"_Let me surprise you," she says. She's not asking.  
_

* * *

By the time they return to Felix's, the sky is a bruise, a colorful patchwork that grows darker by the minute. When the door slides open, the shadows climbing the walls seem to waver. A single lamp brightens the loft, lit up in the corner where Felix stands before a blank canvas, contemplating his palette.

"Uh oh," Sarah remarks, a wry smirk curling her lips. "Are we intruding, Fee?" Even if they were, Cosima doubts Sarah would _actually_ be concerned. She, on the other hand, tends to worry. She feels like an interloper here, sometimes. It has nothing to do with Felix – he's been endlessly welcoming. He tends to grow disinterested when she geeks out, but otherwise, he's in a constant state of amusement with her.

It's just that she's spent the majority of her life alone. Often, it was by choice. Growing up, she had a difficult time connecting with people, either intellectually or emotionally. This disconnect necessitated a sort of hyper-independence – a fondness for solitude.

One of the great things about having genetic identicals, she's found, is that there isn't really a need to connect. They are innately bonded to each other, alike in ways so easy and unfathomable, yet still different enough to find constant intrigue in each other. When it comes to her clones, their families just seem, in some way, to belong to her, too. If only a little bit.

Independence is a habit of hers, though, one she's practiced her entire life. She's felt for the past couple of weeks that she ought to find a place of her own, start to move on. Waking up in Felix's bed inevitably reminds her of days in which she almost didn't wake at all. She'd like to forget.

"I know the muse isn't fond of visitors."

"No," he sighs dramatically, "but the muse is being _finicky_ tonight. I can't even figure out how to start."

Sarah goes immediately for the kitchenette, picking up a kettle and gesturing towards Cosima. "Something hot?"

Cosima shrugs, removing her coat. "Sure, thanks. Coffee." She watches Kira as the girl wanders quietly over to Felix, standing at his hip and glancing up at the canvas with the same steady deliberation. She seems fascinated by art, Cosima has noticed – looking, inspecting, drawing. She's amassed an impressive stack of drawings in the past few months. More incentive to get her own place, she thinks. If she had, say, a fridge, she'd have a place to display them.

"What do you think, Monkey," Felix asks, looking down at his niece. "What should I paint?" She cocks her hip for a moment, imitating him maybe, before her face lights. Cosima takes a seat at the kitchen counter, curious for her answer.

"Fox-Bear Witch," the girl suggests. Cosima snorts.

"What? Cos, the hell kind of stories you been reading to her?"

"_The Island of Doctor Moreau_," Kira answers. "It's science-fiction, Uncle Felix." _Duh._

"Oh, of course, how foolish of me." He glances over his shoulder to roll his eyes at Cosima when a sudden thought occurs to him. "Shite, Cos." He strides forward, rifling through a stack of letters on the counter. "I almost forgot." He hands a small white envelope out for her, which she takes immediately into her hands. Turning it over, she sees there's no return address. Her heart hammers instantly in her chest.

Sarah and Felix don't even pretend to feign other interests while she tears open the envelope. The blatant disregard for privacy feels especially familial.

Her hands tremble, just slightly, when she unfolds the small piece of paper inside. The precisely angled script is familiar.

There are two sets of numbers at the top, separated by a comma, the first containing eight digits, the second, seven. Below them, in fine scrawl, is written, _"Je suis toujours en attente pour que la surprise. __XO."_

An immediate grin splits her face. She feels so breathlessly relieved her head goes a little light.

"What is it," Sarah asks.

Felix, tactlessly, leans right over the top of the paper, brow furrowing slightly in confusion. He points to the numbers. "The French seems obvious enough. But what's that supposed to mean?"

"Coordinates," she replies, unable to take her eyes off of them. "She wants me to know exactly where to find her."

* * *

_AN: All right, needed to get a little post-finale fic out (something derivative of canon) before I'd allow myself to delve into some AU (heavily debating a Rock Band AU at the moment). I've got two more chapters planned for this. Hope you enjoy!  
_


	2. Chapter 2

It's been nearly thirteen years since she's run along the Vienne, Delphine realizes, as the clean scent of freshwater assaults her senses. The breeze carries easily across the river, gently brushing her back as she wills her legs to pump harder. Bundled in a quickly dampening hoodie and shorts, she convinces herself of the same foolish thought she'd convinced herself of as a teenager – that she can outrun the wind itself. The thought once made her feel gleeful, mischievous, in some way; now, it only makes her chest ache.

Her lungs burn. She hasn't run much since college, and even then, her morning outings had been scarce. She'd jogged often in high school, back when time was a luxury, even if it had seemed, petulantly, that it was one not afforded to her. Most of her time was spent with her nose in books, or locked in a lab. Athletics had never been her strong suit – as a teen she was lanky and naturally clumsy. Running was simple though, and she was fast.

Huffing, she pushes a little harder. She loves this river, this park. Limoges is beautiful. It's where her mémé lived nearly her entire life – for the majority of Delphine's life. When she was growing up, Delphine spent many weeks with her every year. Her mother's father had died before her birth, and she was the only granddaughter. It made their time together, just the two of them, all the more special.

The last time she'd visited the city, she had been seventeen. Mémé had just died—lung cancer. Delphine had attempted a morning run along the Vienne, just to clear her head; but, feeling furious and painfully saddened, had given up after ten minutes. She'd walked back to Mémé's house and picked up the woman's final pack of cigarettes – nearly full – and began smoking. She'd run less after that; smoked the same brand for thirteen years, until Toronto, when willingly filling her lungs with poison suddenly felt treasonous.

"_Merde,"_ she hisses under her breath, hand clutching at the stitch in her side. She pushed too hard, she knows. She hadn't been smart, hadn't stretch beforehand – had just tightened her laces and set off running the moment she reached the park. Her body wasn't ready for such punishment. She just felt like it was time to do something—_anything._

She worries about her choice in relocating to Limoges. Without looking at her history, it'd be difficult to place her. She hadn't taken a plane, after all – had simply taken trains, busses, from Frankfurt into Strasbourg. From there she'd trekked through France, gravitating towards Limoges without much thought. The familiar architecture and well-known side-streets had been an immediate comfort, though the subtle differences imposed by the passing of years had been somewhat unnerving. Still, she can buy pastries from her mémé's favorite patisserie, drink coffee in her favorite café, even walk by the old house on an evening stroll. She feels somehow redeemed by these things.

DYAD has her entire history on file, though, in some database somewhere. With a bit of digging, there is the potential that they could connect the dots, seek out her old haunts. It may be unlikely, but the possibility still lurks. There only needs to be _a_ possibility, for everything to go wrong.

Despite how difficult it had been, she'd refrained from contacting Cosima since arriving here. It was only in the last week that she'd felt courageous enough to send her a location, and even that felt like a grievous risk.

She couldn't be certain whether or not Cosima would do anything with that information, after all this time. Wasn't sure if she _could._ Their correspondence had been mostly one-sided in the past couple of months, and Delphine couldn't be certain of the other woman's condition. Cosima had seemed hopeful, at least over the phone – she had sounded _tenacious_. It had been enough to convince, to make Delphine believe she would beat back the illness.

Placing her hands on her hips, she stares out at the river, allowing the sweat to roll down her face and neck. She inhales deeply, shakily, brow furrowed. Daily, she wonders if she could have somehow avoided boarding the plane to Frankfurt that day. She'd been escorted personally by a couple of Rachel's finest guards. They were polite and well-dressed, allowing some pretense of freewill by the mere virtue of _not_ handcuffing her; but they'd pointedly allowed their jackets to ride too high, feigning modesty, revealing their sidearms. There had been no doubt then, just how expendable she truly was. Had she attempted to run, she would have been executed on the spot.

The first couple of months in Germany she had been monitored with the same deliberately menacing scrutiny. Her colleagues were genial enough, of course, if a little cold; but the suits were never far. She had no doubt that even at home, in her DYAD appointed apartment, they were keeping tabs on her.

Between menial experiments, she'd attempted to resume the work she'd begun in Toronto, searching for a cure for Cosima's illness. The stem cells left by Helena had offered the clone temporary relief, rebooting her immune system and offering her a quasi-remission. The disease remained though, and with it, the threat of death.

Speaking with a few of the scientists that had monitored Katja Obinger (or rather, broken into her home to poke and prod her as she slept), offered a few insights into the illness, but nothing groundbreaking. Given her low clearance in the new facility, she couldn't dig much deeper than the surface when looking for information.

Her mistake had been rooting unauthorized through the wrong databases. "Hacked into" was probably a more apt term, but it didn't make much of a difference. She'd been on thin ice as it was, and they were looking for any excuse to terminate her. And maybe she'd over-reacted—she'd seen strange men lurking about the building, and wasn't foolish enough to wait around and allow them to introduce themselves.

She'd climbed out the window with her shower running, the stove on, TV dialed to an unruly volume, and shimmied onto a neighboring fire escape. From there she'd climbed down a circuitous path, running without thought, hailing a cab several blocks away. She'd carried a small backpack with only essential items, her electronic devices not among them. Whether there was anybody _actually_ coming for her seemed irrelevant. She started running, and something broke in her. She couldn't have stopped even if she'd wanted to.

* * *

_The landscape is little more than a black, velvety blur as it slides past the window; the moon a waning sliver; the stars few, their luminescence outnumbered by the countless fireflies blinking lazily in flight. Fall is encroaching, yet the temperature remains unseasonably warm – balmy, even. One could almost mistake the September humidity for August._

_Inside of the sleeper car, Delphine stands hesitantly before the small bed, staring down the sweater set out across it. She'd smoothed the wrinkles from the sleeves after months of being tucked away in her suitcase—not forgotten, but consciously ignored. When she'd first removed it, she'd been tempted to bury her nose into the fabric, seeking out an aroma she feared had long since faded. Her anxiety had won out, however, and she'd set it instead at a distance, dutifully upon the bed as if it were some fragile artifact._

_The navy cardigan had always looked nice on Cosima. It was too large for her, of course, as were most of her sweaters. This one was older, bearing a few small tears or holes at the elbows, the cuffs. Cosima typically only wore it to bed, or first thing in the morning, as she'd stand at the kitchen counter clad in her pajamas, or just her underwear, perhaps, sipping coffee while checking emails on her tablet._

_There were such gentle, unobtrusive moments worn into this particular article of clothing – moments in which Cosima felt, not vulnerable, but thoughtlessly unguarded, comfortable, and completely without pretense. These were moments that few had been privy to. In what precious little time they'd spent together, Delphine had been one of the exceptions. _

_Cosima had never mentioned missing the sweater in any of their phone calls. Even if she'd wanted to, Delphine didn't think she would. They didn't talk nearly as often as either would like, and when they did, the tone was always decidedly precarious. Topics as conventional as the whereabouts of an old sweater had little place in their conversations. _

_She could never bring herself to wear the sweater back in Frankfurt, in her DYAD-granted quarters. She'd been too cowardly then. She's cowardly now, still. That will probably never change. Nevertheless, she's placed herself in an even more perilous circumstance than she ever would have considered herself capable of, and for that, she feels somewhat brave—_braver_._

_Taking a deep breath, she unbuttons her pants, kicking them off hastily, and pulls her shirt over her head. She doesn't bother folding either, can't bring herself to care. Her own possessions are unimportant. The clothing will remain in a wrinkled heap._

_Stripped down to just her underwear, she sits at the edge of the bed and carefully pulls on the cardigan, buttoning it slowly. What seemed so large on Cosima's frame seems to fit her much more snuggly. Straightening her spine, she spends a moment merely feeling the soft cotton, running her hands down her covered belly, stretching the cuffs into her palms and digging in her bluntly bitten nails. After a moment's hesitance, she wraps an arm around herself and buries her nose in the crook of her elbow._

_The scent is faint. At first she catches the remnants of months' old fabric softener. Next, the faded aroma of pot, which seemed to cling to all of the brunette's clothing in hazy degrees. Finally, layered beneath these things, is a scent distinctly Cosima, something earthy and clean. A mixture of bar-soap and fresh air; and another trace, which has always reminded Delphine of ginger. _

_She had expected to feel cowed by the scent, when she inhaled. Instead, she feels soothed, placated. It's like slipping into a hot bath after a stressful day—so very welcome. Holding herself for a time, with her eyes shut, she can almost convince herself that it is Cosima's arms around her – no longer frail with illness, but firm, as they had been when Delphine had met her._

_She imagines the body on the bed beside her. When she opens her eyes, her gaze is fixed to the window. Her own reflection stares back, a gentle smile upon her lips, one that fails to reach her tired eyes. Her face is silhouetted in the rushing, black night; split in half by the crescent moon.  
_

* * *

Mémé's cigarettes taste better now than they ever have before, in spite of the remote pangs of guilt that hollow her gut with each drag. When she'd quit back in Toronto, she'd had so many distractions to quash her cravings, Cosima's illness being chief among them. When work couldn't quite abate her frustrations, however, Cosima herself had been more than willing to do so. Delphine attempts to conjure a blush at the thought, but in truth, she feels too desperate for even the hint of companionship to allow herself any embarrassment.

By the time she reaches her apartment, she's only half-finished her gitane, and on her current budget, can't allow herself to waste even a single drag. She walks on, ready to make another loop around the block, the overcast sky and brisk wind somehow comforting.

"Hé… hé!" The call comes from across the street, and it's easy enough to convince herself that it's not meant for her. She's made a point not to make many acquaintances since her return—it's safer that way. However, when she doesn't turn back, and the man's voice calls again, she can't help the sickening jolt of her heart as it pounds suddenly.

"Madame," he shouts, and from the corner of her eye, she can see him sprinting across the street, waving her down. In her fleeting sidelong glance, his visage is twisted into what she all too easily convinces herself is an accusation – something malicious, predatory. She quickens her pace without thought, knuckles whitening in an instant. An all-out run would belie what innocence she believes she does not have, and she attempts to trot along in passable ignorance. However, as the footfalls echo behind her, the man's voice nearing, she very nearly sprints.

Courage has failed her. The lit cigarette falls from her fingers the second his hand closes around her wrist, her brow pinching in fear. She yields on instinct – it is what her years at DYAD have conditioned her to do. Nevertheless, she sucks in a hard breath as she turns, eyes wide as saucers.

Though she had envisioned triumph to play over the man's face – enmity, perhaps – she is met only with curiosity.

"Uhm," he clears his throat, wariness rearing its head, as well, the very same one might feel when dealing with those of questionable emotional stability. "Madame, je suis désolé de vous déranger, mais je crois que j'ai reçu un morceau de votre courrier." She stares dumbfounded as the man holds up an envelope emblazoned with her name and address, a questioning look upon his face.

"Quoi," she manages to sputter, feeling stupid, and relieved, and _still_ abnormally suspicious of the paunchy, grey-haired man before her.

"Je vis dans la rue. Il doit y avoir un malentendu." That's it: a postal mix-up between neighbors. The occurrence is so horribly pedestrian she could laugh. Instead, she feels heat pricking at the backs of her eyes – a side-effect of the unwarranted adrenaline draining away so abruptly – embarrassment rushing in on its heels.

"Oui. Je suis tellement désolé." She forces a laugh in an attempt to cover her alarm, but it comes off so stilted and hyper that she ends up clearing her throat instead. "Merci, monsieur." Plucking the letter from his hands, she smiles with false cheer, and rushes off without a word, leaving the man bewildered in her wake.

The nicotine is left forgotten, and as a brisk wind blows around her, she is left feeling vertiginous at its center, watched, though she knows the street is nearly empty. She doesn't care what it might look like, as she jogs back towards her apartment, blinded by the moment.

"Putain!" The curse falls under her breath, swallowed by her still-gaping embarrassment. Her face burns with it; but there's a part of her that believes she was right. _Everyone may harm you,_ she tells herself. The fact that she believes that statement, even partially, fills her with such tremendous loneliness that she feels sucker-punched.

She's fishing in her bag for her keys when she nears her front stoop, her thoughts ricocheting between caution and self-deprecation. Despite herself, her eyes begin to swim. Relief floods her again as her hand finally latches around the keys, pulling them from her bag. All she can think about is bolting the door behind her, drawing the shade, and just—

"Delphine?"

The keys clatter noisily upon the ground, ringing in her ears as she comes to a halt. Her vision actually blackens for a moment when she looks up, dizzied by the unwelcomed excitement of the past few moments.

"Hey, I, uh, hope this isn't a bad time," Cosima chuckles uncertainly, taking an anxious step forward.

Delphine stares openly at her for a moment, jaw slack. She tries to asses Cosima's health, but her mind whirrs so dully she can't glean any details beyond, _Breathing. Alive. Here._ Her hand falls over her chest for a moment, as if its presence could still the nervous thumping of her heart.

Blinking hard, taking a deep, quick breath, she collects herself, bending over to gather her keys. She moves to the door, unlocking it swiftly.

She means to be soft, but the question poised on the tip of her tongue comes out shorn, an order. "Inside." Just like that, just like the friendly man across the street, Cosima becomes an unwitting companion to her paranoia. Bewildered, she nods, entering before her. Delphine can't shut the door fast enough.

* * *

_AN: Forgive any errors in the French. After three years studying it in high school, and four semesters in college, my grasp of the language is embarrassingly tenuous.  
_

_Next chapter will be the last. I will be attempting my first foray into smut, so... wish me luck, I guess._


	3. Chapter 3

Cosima isn't sure what she expected would happen the moment that the door closed behind them. On the plane over, as she'd laid her head against the window, attempting to calm the erratic beating of her heart, she'd concocted quite a few scenarios. Some of them were ecstatic, involving deep kisses and luminescent smiles. Some had devolved into fits of lust and cloying passion. Others – her least favorite – had included shouting, tears.

None that she had imagined had been quite as static as this, standing with her hands behind her back, coat still buttoned overwhelmingly tight as she simply stares at Delphine, wild-eyed and silent.

Reunions were supposed to be so much more inflammatory, she thought, so much more irresistible. They always were in movies and books, at least. She realizes now what a mistake it had been, to use either of those as any sort of guide. Now, they're both standing with their mouths gaping slightly, at a loss for words, unable to move or speak, or even really think. She feels as if she's gone on to some sort of sensory overload.

That is the fault in anticipation, she supposes: expectation never fully aligns with reality, if it even comes close. In truth, she never could have imagined what it would be like to stand this close to Delphine again, after thinking she might never again have the chance to. It is almost as if she is undeserving of the moment. It is almost as if she is losing her breath, all over again.

Cosima isn't one for silence though, especially not in moments of discomfort. When she finally speaks, without the conscious effort, all she can seem to muster is a rushed, "Sorry—I'm sorry," her hands flying up shortly after, waving about in some weak conciliatory effort. She's not sure what she's apologizing for—suddenly feels embarrassed for even doing so. She rushes to explain herself, Delphine's brow dipping as she does so.

"Should I have sent a letter? To let you know I was coming? I should have," she shakes her head, sucking in a breath. "I got excited. As soon as I had an address, I just—I had to come." She pauses, watching as Delphine raises a hand over her mouth. The blonde's eyes don't quite glimmer – they merely widen. The size of them causes Cosima's heart to swell unexpectedly. She cocks her head and offers a nervous smile as she finishes, simply, "Because I could."

Delphine sucks in a sharp breath, releasing it with a quiver, her shoulders slumping forward. She grins suddenly, disbelievingly, and covers her face with her hands. "Fuck," she mutters, the English sounding displaced on her tongue. Cosima's brow furrows.

"I can't believe you're apologizing to me," Delphine laughs, the dulcet sound choked inside of a sob. The tears come suddenly, as her head is thrown back, staring at the ceiling.

Cosima takes a step forward, shaking her head. "No," she says weakly, reassuringly.

Finally, Delphine drops her gaze again, looks at her. "Cosima," she says. It is the only thing she _can_ say. Somehow, it is more voluminous to the clone than any paltry admission could ever be.

She doesn't surge forward. She treads gently but confidently, wrapping Delphine in a soothing embrace. The blonde sobs then, unabashedly, and Cosima forces herself to bite back her own, her tears falling silently, without interruption. Delphine returns her embrace.

Together, they tremble. As they stand there in Delphine's barren apartment, a hazy, gray light streaming in through the covered windows, Cosima feels amorphous. This is the real difference between expectation and reality, she realizes. In every fantasy she'd had, their reunion had been so concrete. They had both known exactly what they were feeling in those moments, either kissing or crying or shouting. Each action came without question. Now, everything is so muddled. She can't be sure what she's feeling – only what she is holding. She can only be sure that it is in pieces.

Not everything that has fallen apart has broken though. Most things, she's smart enough to know how to put back together. This time, she has to be.

After a few moments, clutching onto Delphine for dear life, pressing her nose into her neck and shoulder and simply inhaling, she pulls back – not far – just enough to cradle the blonde's face in her hands and ask, with a hint of a laugh, "Why are you crying?" Delphine laughs with her, though the sound doesn't seem very funny. She ducks her head to catch the woman's gaze. "You shouldn't be. I'm here."

Wiping her thumb across Delphine's cheekbone, she grins, as genuinely as she can. "And I'm fine." She sucks in a sudden, deep breath, just to prove her point. "See? Breathing like a pro. I could run a marathon and everything."

Delphine's next laugh, though congested with tears, doesn't sound quite so fragmented. She even smiles, the light touching her tired eyes. Cosima's grin broadens.

"Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration," she continues. "I couldn't even do that when I was at full health. _But_, I could totally, like, pull a wicked all-nighter in the lab, and would be fine. That's something, right?"

"Oui," Delphine answers, nodding rapidly. She laughs again, a bit more calmly, and sniffles, her hands coming to rest on Cosima's forearms. She looks down, watching herself tenderly stroke the smaller woman's skin, lips parting slightly. She's fascinated by the sight of it, the feel—something that she had, in the back of her mind, convinced herself she would never again feel after that day Rachel shipped her off to Frankfurt. "It is more than that."

Something in Cosima quiets. It isn't just her voice, when she finds the words to speak, so transfixed by the way Delphine is watching – it is the beating of her heart, too; the pulsation of her thoughts. She feels still for a moment, if not yet solid.

"I mean, totally down for crazy science. Wouldn't even break a sweat," she murmurs, the jest escaping her. Delphine's hands still, and without realizing it, her bottom lip is between her teeth. Cosima is well aware of the innuendo, but she hadn't meant for it to come off so suggestively, whether or not it was quiet and stilted. Entendre seems somehow inappropriate right now. Nevertheless, she finds herself flush with warmth.

"You wouldn't," Delphine asks honestly, the question seemingly innocent. In a way, it probably is. They're both too deprived, too desperate to be coy.

"Depends on what kind of science we're talking about."

"Oh," Delphine looks up, meets her gaze. "I didn't think we needed to make the distinction."

Saying anything right now would be sly, Cosima suspects, but she can't. Neither of them can even smile. They want too much to smile. So, instead, she takes a shuddering breath, and presses forward gently.

Her mouth barely closes around Delphine's when she feels the blonde gasping, quietly. She can understand why. Desperation coats every breath, and neither can really believe that they're even _here._ It makes everything seem like a surprise, regardless of its inevitability.

Their lips though, in spite of distance, of illness and disparity, slot together too easily for the motion to be anything but expected. In the seconds it takes for the familiar rhythm to ebb back into their mouths, to their hands and hips, a sense of clarity washes over Cosima. Delphine still feels tentative in her grasp, but the heat that her hands blaze emboldens the brunette with confidence, surety.

Exerting a firm yet delicate pressure, she guides Delphine's back into the nearest wall, the hand on her hip an anchor. And maybe she shouldn't speak. Maybe her tongue should match the motions of Delphine's; maybe her hips should sway a little deeper. Maybe she should act like nothing about this feels awkward, but she can't. Because Delphine, as much as she is responding – pushing even – feels stiff, even somewhat afraid.

And maybe that's just how it's going to be, for a little while, until they manage to piece things back together. It doesn't have to hurt though.

Between kisses she's breaking for oxygen, pulling a hair's-breadth from Delphine's lips and whispering into her mouth, _"It's fine,"_ and _"We're okay,"_ and _"I missed you. God, I missed you."_ Delphine doesn't say anything in return. She merely whimpers, hands tightening over everything that they grasp, mouth melting into Cosima's with more fervency. By the time the brunette's knee slides between her thighs, one palm ghosting between her hoodie and her tank top, her body starts to uncoil.

"We should—take this off," Cosima mutters, tugging on her sweatshirt.

"Oui," she nods, "yes. And your coat." They shed their outer layers with ease, Cosima throwing the sweatshirt to the ground, her hand running through blonde tresses on the way back down; Delphine unbuttoning her coat with shaky fingers, sliding them warmly over her shoulders. She pulls back for a moment, glancing at Cosima's sweater. When the other woman reaches down, a questioning look in her eyes, as if to divest herself, Delphine shakes her head. "Non. Venez."

She takes Cosima's hand, holds it impossibly tight, and leads her through the small apartment. They pass the living room and the kitchenette, and walk straight to the bedroom. Delphine shuts the door behind them, though she isn't sure why. She lingers near the entrance while Cosima glances around, standing at the foot of the bed. There's not much to see, aside from a scant few pieces of furniture. On the bedside table there's a book and a picture frame, turned face down. She doesn't ask about it.

What she does ask, unsure of herself, is, "Should we talk?"

"I don't know," Delphine answers honestly. "Do you want to?" Cosima stares at her, studies her for a moment, before shrugging. She walks over to the open bathroom door and glances inside, distracting herself. Delphine looks down, toying with the hem of her shirt. "Does this feel weird?"

"No," Cosima replies too suddenly, barely believing herself. "Well, yes. A little. But it's not—" She walks forward, palms held out. "It's not you. I swear."

"Then what is it?" Delphine is almost afraid of the answer. She can't figure out why neither of them can get this right – why they've finally gotten what they wanted, and it suddenly feels too unbearably fragile, or otherwise unreal for them to act on it. This isn't what it was supposed to be like. She feels like she could collapse.

"I just… I feel like there's all these things we should be doing right now."

"Like _what_?" Her voice shakes – she can't help herself.

"Like _talking_, maybe. Everything was so fucked up when you left. It only got _more_ fucked up—and I'm not saying it was your fault—it _wasn't_, Delphine. But so much was happening. How can we ignore that—"

"So, we'll talk—" Delphine rushes forward, leaving perhaps a foot of space between them. Cosima is shaking her head again, brow furrowed in frustration. The blonde can feel it, too.

"No, I don't want to—that's the thing. I just… I really…" Her mouth clamps shut, words failing her. She presses her hands to her forehead, as if she can rub away the exasperation.

Despite her fears, her confusion, Delphine is still certain that she can't stand the sight of Cosima looking so pained, so lost. Suddenly she's drifting forward, her hands seeking Cosima's, holding them. She lifts one of the brunette's hands, presses her nose into the back of her knuckles, and closes her eyes. "I want to have you," she whispers, her conviction clear. "I—I need that." She places Cosima's hands on her hips, cups her cheek, her neck, capturing her gaze once again. "Is that what you need?"

"I—" She clears her throat, suddenly feeling choked. "Of course. I've needed that since we met."

"Okay," She quietly replies. The breath shudders in her chest as she surges forward to meet Cosima's mouth.

This feels right to her – taking care of Cosima – it feels familiar. Maybe that's what the problem has been. She's felt selfish for a long time, unable to leave well enough alone, unable to fulfill her duties, to be loyal to any of the right people. Too many lives depended on her mistakes.

Had she stayed in Frankfurt, exactly where she was supposed to, things may have been easier for everyone—safer. Had she not retreated back to her country, to her grand-mère's city; had she not sent those coordinates, taken the things she'd wanted without thinking—maybe nobody would have been hurt at all.

They've mostly come out of this alive, though she knows they're not out of the woods yet. Danger still lurks, and likely, there will be more selfishness to come. But in all of that, she knows where her priorities will lie. Cosima will always be more important to her than all other things. She will always give for Cosima, take for her when need be. She will always be selfless – better when she is around.

So, Delphine doesn't feel guilty when Cosima's back hits her mattress, when she pulls the other woman's shirt over her head, unbuttons her pants. Guilt, as a matter of fact, is the furthest thing from her mind when her teeth nip at Cosima's pulse point, and the consequent moan tumbles from her lips. She does feel a distant panic, as her mouth trails heated kisses between the brunette's breasts, down over her stomach where she can feel the faint ridges of Cosima's ribs under her lips, but she forbids herself from that fear. _"Mon amour,"_ she whispers, again and again over each notch, as if she can kiss the meat back onto her bones, the color back into her pale skin.

"I know," Cosima breathes, the rhythm quick, but still whole. Delphine glances up at this revelation, her heart swelling with each inhalation. A grin splits her face.

"Lie down," she gently commands, crawling gently back up the woman's body to straddle her hips. She removes Cosima's bra, her tank top and her own soon following. The steady thrum of blood in her ears makes her want to rush, but she forces herself to stay calm, to take her time. It's been months since she's had this privilege – she wants to savor each moment, to properly reacquaint herself with the body beneath her.

What she finds though, as her hands skim teasingly along Cosima's hips, settling finally on her breasts, is that her body seems not to have forgotten this pleasant geography. She remembers the paths that her fingers, teeth, and tongue must traverse to elicit a shiver or breathy sigh. She remembers each tiny scar or freckle, remembers to kiss each one and be thankful for the story they tell. She remembers the exact pace, the exact amount of friction it takes to make Cosima call out her name. Her mind may have forgotten, in a more sullen time, but her body remembers everything.

She laves Cosima's body with kisses, feeling her own grow hotter with each one. The brunette runs her hands up and down Delphine's back, squeezing her hips, her ass.

"Take these off," she pants, tugging at the waist of Delphine's shorts.

"No. Not yet." She pins Cosima's hands on either side of her head, leaning down to nip at her bottom lip, her jaw. Cosima wants to protest, wants to see Delphine exposed, to touch her; but as her eyes flutter closed, a sigh escaping her lips, she can't deny the blonde her control.

When Delphine moves down to kiss her breasts again, taking a nipple gently between her teeth, Cosima manages to squeak out a paltry, "You're really—taking your time—aren't you?" The throaty chuckle she receives in response is enough to make her squirm, pressing her thighs together.

"You have it so hard, ma chérie." Cosima wants to nod in agreement, or make some sort of snarky comment, but she arches her back instead. When Delphine smiles up at her, she thinks it might be a bit forced, the edges of it frayed with the remnants of her earlier anxiety, but she chooses not to linger on it. Not now, when the blonde is leaning down, breath tickling her earlobe, whispering, _"Pauvre petite chiot."_

The familiarity of the statement is disarming enough that she doesn't notice when the hand that had been splayed over her stomach moves downward, teasing her wetness. The first sensation leaves her gasping; but when Delphine enters her just a moment later, suddenly, without preamble, her vision grows fuzzy at the edges.

The blonde takes her time, but with a firmness that works Cosima into a rapid frenzy. She sits up while she straddles her, thrusting fluidly. The hand she places on the brunette's hip anchors her. From here she watches, fixated completely by the subtle language that plays over Cosima's features, in each blink, each flutter of her eyelashes. It is not long before the woman's hands are grasping her thighs desperately, muscles tensing in her abdomen and arms.

Delphine knows the signs. She should feel wholly elated by the sight, and a large part of her is; yet, there is still a small part of her, a hollow pit inside of her stomach, that feels frantic anxiety. She wants to draw the moment out as long as she possibly can, but against her own will, her pace quickens. Cosima's body jumps with the shift in rhythm. When she senses the moan that is about spill forth, she practically shouts.

"Je t'aime. Je t'aime, Cosima."

"I—I love you." Cosima's return sentiment is lost in the climax that washes over her.

Delphine sees the calm returning to her as she eases the brunette down. Her pace slows, but she doesn't stop, still feeling that arresting anxiety in the pit of her stomach. Cosima keeps her eyes shut for several moments, still releasing small, breathy moans as Delphine caresses her. When she finally glances up, meeting Delphine's gaze, however, her brow furrows slightly.

"Stop a second," she says gently, imploringly. Delphine simply ignores her, closing her own eyes this time. _"Delphine."_ Cosima's hand is on her wrist then, stilling her.

They are silent for a moment, listening to each other breathe. Delphine's eyes are shut so tightly that she does not notice when Cosima sits up. The woman may be smaller than her, frailer, in fact, but she rolls Delphine onto her back with the same baffling ease that she's always possessed. When the blonde glances up, mouth gaping in surprise, she expects to see Cosima grinning at her cockily. Instead, the brunette gazes at her with concern, lips pinched in a delicate frown.

"Why did you stop me," Delphine asks, feeling suddenly insecure. Cosima answers her with a hand upon her cheek, caressing. She lowers herself onto Delphine's body, practically lying atop her. She holds herself aloft on her elbows, her face near enough that the blonde can feel the warmth of her breath upon her face.

Cosima is gazing steadily, acutely into her eyes when she quietly answers, "You've been taking care of me for too long. I just want to take care of you." She could just be talking about the sex, but Delphine knows that she means so much more than that.

* * *

"_You're still cold," Delphine asks, dipping the tips of her fingers into the water. Any hotter and she fears it might actually scald._

_The mirror hanging over the sink has fogged completely, the temperature in the room reaching a cloying peak. Delphine kneels beside the tub, washcloth in hand, nearly sweating in just a loose tank top and a pair of underwear. Cosima, on the other hand, is shivering._

_She curls over herself, arms hugging her shins, cheek resting on her knees. Her back bows, allowing Delphine to count every notch in her spine with ease. The blonde frowns._

"_A little—chilly." _

"_We'll be quick then," Delphine assures her, lathering the washcloth in one of Felix's fragrant soaps. "I promise."_

"'_Kay." _

_She runs the washcloth along Cosima's back, concerned when the woman recoils slightly at first contact._

"_That's not too hot, is it?"_

"_No." Cosima turns her face, burying it in both her knees. Her arms tighten their hold. "My skin just feels so sensitive. Everything is like pins and needles."_

"_I'm sorry. You'll feel better after this though, I'm sure." She washes Cosima as quickly as she can, but she is sure to be thorough. Her health has been on a steady decline in the past couple of weeks, the illness invading new corners of her existence. _

_The sickness no longer remains tangled in Cosima's bedsheets, shed with a new day, a freshly laundered set of clothes. It clings to her, follows her into the lab, weighs on her every move. Delphine hates to admit it, but her disease has evolved into a more sensory presence. She can taste it, smell it on Cosima daily. And some days, Cosima can simply not wash herself of her ailments. It is on those days that Delphine kneels beside her with gentle hands, a calm, soothing caress. _

_Delphine is leaning forward to wipe away the eye makeup, Cosima's chin held tenderly in her hand, when the brunette embarrassedly mutters, "This is so strange."_

"_Why? What do you mean," Delphine asks, the hand holding the washcloth dipping back into the water._

"_I feel like a child."_

"_No—no, you shouldn't."_

"_I'm pretty sure the last time someone bathed me I was twelve, and I had such an awful case of the chicken pox my mom pretty much had to carry me into a tub full of oatmeal. It was totally strange." In spite of her caustic tone, of her pallor, Delphine can see how suddenly her cheeks tinge pink._

_She can see how this might be construed as infantilizing. It is difficult to feel a strong sense of agency when you can't even clean yourself. She can remember feeling the indignance of that even as a child. _

_Cosima, she knows, for all her insecurity (and in spite of her cheeky nature, there is a great deal of it) can be rather prideful. Every day that she is unable to care for herself, to combat her disease, her dignity wanes just a bit more._

"_It is not strange to be cared for by someone who loves you. I know you could do all of this yourself, Cosima—" In truth, she is _not_ so sure of that. "—But it would be a challenge, and an unnecessary one at that. I _want_ to help you. It would be a little foolish to deny me." Cosima says nothing, contemplating this statement. Delphine cannot see, so much as she senses, an objection. "Think—if _I_ were the sick one. You would not hesitate to do these things for me."_

_The brunette is quiet for another moment, arms still wrapped around her knees, before she lifts her head, a little defiantly, and takes the washcloth gently from Delphine's hand. "Fine. But I can wash my own face," she mutters. Her eyes dart up skittishly, meeting the other woman's gaze. There is an indignant wrinkle in her brow, but her eyes have softened, all the same._

_They finish quickly. Delphine places a hand under one of Cosima's armpits to help lift her from the tub, the other stroking her back. Her knees wobble, but she rises steadily, nonetheless. She doesn't need Delphine to guide her into the other room, but doesn't complain about the arm that squeezes her abdomen._

_On the bed she is shaking, dwarfed by the large towel placed over her shoulders, while Delphine rifles through her suitcase for a clean outfit to sleep in. "Your clothes are so much more exciting than mine," she comments, warmed by the vibrancy, the softness of every article, and how they all feel so distinctly _Cosima._ "We've never gone shopping together. You'll have to take me sometime." _

_She settles on a tank top and navy cardigan, as well as a pair of harem pants. They don't at all match, but she knows how well that seems to suit Cosima. When the brunette takes the outfit from her, she's smiling crookedly._

"_We'll g-go to San Fran sometime," she says through shivers, pulling her shirt over her head. "Haight-Ashbury is kind of a t-tourist trap, but there's—" She's a little unsteady pulling her pants on, but sends Delphine a challenging glance when she moves to help. "—some great boutiques, thrift shops." She smiles triumphantly when she finishes dressing. _

"_Well, I would love to go home with you." Delphine hands Cosima her glasses. She can't help her grin as the brunette's face scrunches when she slides them on. Their exchange is perhaps a bit impractical, given current circumstances, but it warms her, regardless. _

_Later, when Cosima is half-sitting in bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows, and Delphine settles beside her, she doesn't sidle against the blonde's chest as she normally does._

"_No?" _

_Cosima watches her for a moment – unsmiling, but kind – and shakes her head. Instead, she lifts her own arm, inviting Delphine to lie on her._

_When she hesitates, Cosima raises a brow. "C'mon. You don't think I'll break, do you?"_

"_No…" Cosima is smaller than her, but her length seems to fit against her so well. With her head resting on the woman's chest, she feels conflicted, unsure if the rutted rhythm of Cosima's breath ought to make her feel frightened, or proud. _

_She glances up to see Cosima breathing persistently through her nose, her refusal of the cannula seeming suddenly justified. It doesn't come easy, but she's too stubborn not to fight._

_Pride it is. She clutches Cosima's sweater between her fingers, running the pad of her thumb over the fabric. Cosima's lungs stutter for a second, but she bites back a cough—carries on. Delphine is _so_ proud, it is almost unfathomable. She never realized you could feel that way about something you had not borne. She buries her face in Cosima's neck, thinking of their earlier conversation._

"_If you take me to San Francisco, then I must take you to Lyon."_

"_Lyon—I thought you were from Paris?"_

"_My family did not move to Paris until I was eleven. Even then, we lived just outside of the city. Lyon feels more like home."_

_Cosima squeezes her shoulder lightly. "Okay. Then we'll go to Lyon." After a moment, she adds, "San Fran first though. I always feel like you're leading me now. I really want to take _you_ somewhere." Delphine smiles, placing a kiss on her collarbone. "And I'll take you to all of my old haunts and everything, but we can do whatever you want. All of the touristy stuff. We'll make it about you. Sound good?"_

_Delphine swathes what skin is exposed beneath the cardigan with tiny kisses. She can't help herself now. "Okay," she mutters into Cosima's clavicle, tipping her head back to kiss the underside of her chin. "Yes. That sounds very good."  
_

* * *

"I'm sorry." Cosima has never heard Delphine's voice sound so small. She is bewildered by it, bewildered by the bow of her spine as she rolls away from her on the bed. She wants to reach out and lay her hand on her, but she can't. She is afraid.

"I feel so selfish," Delphine explains, behind her own hands.

"What?" Cosima kneels on the bed beside her, naked. She places both hands on Delphine's arm. "Delphine. Stop this." The blonde rolls onto her back when Cosima pulls, but she does not remove her hands from her face.

Cosima struggles for the right words. How can she refute her? She crawls on top of Delphine, straddling her waist. Her hands wrap around the woman's wrists, but she does not force them away from her face. If she needs to hide, she will allow her that.

"You fucked up. A few times," she begins, the words coming out more harshly than she had intended. Beneath her, Delphine trembles. "You went behind my back, kept things from me. You _lied._ I hated that."

"Cosima—"

"No, just… shut up for a minute," she says, more gently. "Things could've been so different if you'd just _talked_ to me. I know I would've fought you on everything. But you could've just—if you'd been up front—" Just thinking about it, she feels the frustration surge inside of her. She still can't believe how this wonderfully intelligent woman could have made such foolish miscalculations. Can't understand how she could love her so persistently, regardless. It is confounding. All she can do is accept. "With me, you just have to put your foot down. I'm more than stubborn. I'm an asshole. But—I mean—so are you. We're both assholes."

Slowly, Delphine removes her hands from her face. She stares up at Cosima, looking fearful, confused. Cosima holds a little tighter to her wrists, stroking over the insides with her thumbs. She can feel a twin pulse jumping beneath each one.

"Also, I'm no wordsmith." The corner of Delphine's mouth twitches. "But I'm telling you now… I have an understanding. Which is that I will never—at least, I hope I never have to—understand what it is like to have to balance all those roles: girlfriend, doctor, monitor. That was a lot, wasn't it?"

A little uncertainly, once she realizes what Cosima is waiting for, Delphine replies, "Yes."

"I think altruism is really great, conceptually; but it doesn't seem like you can ever arrive at the _right_ conclusion without having to make some bad decisions. I resent that you didn't always leave me a choice, or even let me in on what was happening, but I know that—" Her throat suddenly tightens with emotion. She takes a second to clear it. "If you had been a total saint the whole time and done everything that I'd wanted, complied totally with my idea of what was ethical, I'd be dead right now." She can't help the way her voice cracks just slightly with her next admission. "And for as much as I said I'd rather die than take DYAD's handouts or harm my niece in _any_ way, I'm still really—_really_ fucking glad that I'm here right now."

She releases Delphine's wrists, immediately cupping her cheeks. Tenderly, she leans down, pressing a long kiss to the blonde's forehead.

"You weren't selfish," she says quietly between Delphine's brows, eyes closed. "You vilified yourself so that I could be cured." Dragging her lips down, she kisses the bridge of her nose. "Everyone thought you were the bad guy. You even had me fooled for a minute." Lower—she kisses the tip of her nose before pulling back just far enough to look Delphine in the eye. She smirks as she says, "I'm too smart for that though, aren't I? Can't trick me." Smirk broadening at the blonde's answering smile, she presses forward to capture her lips. "I love the hell out of you in spite of it all. I love you more than ever."

She can feel Delphine smiling into their kiss. Suddenly, she can feel her, hear her giggling, too, very softly. She pulls back, smiling goofily. There are tears streaming out of the corners of Delphine's eyes. She wipes them away with her thumbs.

"Did I make you cry," she teases gently.

"Y-yes," Delphine stutters, tamping down on her giggles. "Do you know why?"

Cosima's brow furrows in curiosity. "I could maybe guess."

"Because, mon amour," she wraps her hand around the back of Cosima's neck, pulling her in for another brief kiss. When they break, she grins. "You are an _asshole._"

"Oh," she blinks. But then Delphine's giggles return, bubbling out from her joyously. Burying her face into the blonde's neck, kissing, nipping, Cosima can't help but join her.

* * *

Delphine is the first to leave the bed, and not until several hours later. Cosima could stay wrapped up in her for days, if she were allowed; but she understands Delphine's insistence that they eat. The cup of tea also promised to her was a little too enticing to deny.

She basks in Delphine's sheets for a moment, stretching contentedly. The scent of them, of their exertions, is all around her, heady and sweet. She feels wholly gratified.

Outside, the sun has long since set, the waxing moon taking its place. The lamp on the table beside the bed illuminates the room softly. Now, in the first few moments of solitude she's been granted, Cosima takes in her surroundings.

The room is dishearteningly bare. Cosima understands that Delphine hasn't been here long, but the lack of personal effects is rather stark. As far as she can tell, the only belongings of Delphine's in the entire room, aside from the clothing that is tucked, undoubtedly, very neatly away in her dresser and closet, are the book and downturned picture frame on the bedside table.

Rolling onto her stomach, Cosima reaches over to pluck up the book first. She had been expecting a French novel, perhaps, but is surprised to pick up an old, worn copy of Jane Austen's _Sense and Sensibility._ She hums to herself, flipping through its pages. She thinks she may have read the book at some point during her academic career, but can't recall it. Outside of scientific reading, her tastes never veered far from sci-fi or fantasy.

After setting the book back down, she debates whether or not to glance at the picture. It seems somehow more intrusive, but she can't really help herself either.

The photo is another surprise. Though she's never seen pictures of Delphine as a child, her face is unmistakable. She couldn't have been more than seven or eight, sitting in the lap of a snowy-haired woman who holds her tightly by the middle. Their smiles are so bright that she involuntarily mirrors them.

"You shouldn't be so nosy." Delphine's teasing startles her. She sets the picture down quickly, rolling onto her back. Walking over in just her underwear and a tee shirt, the blonde sits down at the edge of the bed, handing Cosima her cup of tea. "Some people are rather put off by that kind of behavior," she says, popping a piece of fruit into her mouth with a smile. She offers the plate to Cosima, who takes a handful of berries greedily.

"Some… but not you?"

Delphine shrugs. "It would be silly to keep hiding things from you – even small things. Wouldn't it?"

"I guess so," she answers, catching a drop of juice before it can dribble down her chin. "Is that your grandmother?"

"Was, yes," she nods. "Mémé."

Cosima sits up fully, crossing her legs beneath the sheet. "Were you close?"

"Very, though I did not get to see her as much as either of us would have liked. She lived here, in Limoges. It was nearly a four hour drive from Lyon. About the same from Paris."

"Oh. Is that why you chose to come back here?"

Slowly, Delphine nods again. "It is very beautiful here. I will show you. And I have so many nice memories." She pauses for a moment, chewing another mouthful of fruit. "I thought they might come looking for me, in Lyon or Paris. Any place I've lived, really. Here… it felt different. More secret."

"That makes sense," Cosima nods, finishing off the fruit in her hand. She takes a sip of her tea, watching Delphine eat. There are so many questions she could ask—that she wants to ask—but she doesn't want to overwhelm her. It seems innocent enough when she questions, "Why was the frame turned down?"

Delphine's face darkens almost instantly. "I like to remember, but I do not want to feel as if I am being watched." She shakes her head, her cheeks coloring. "That sounds silly."

"No, I don't think so."

Delphine looks at her, eyes slightly glossed. "In a very lonely place, even the eyes of a photograph can feel alive. Some nights…" Cosima can see her doubting herself, doubting her words. Setting her tea down, she scoots closer, pulling one of Delphine's hands into her lap.

"Tell me," she says gently.

Delphine looks away, but she continues. "Some nights, I feel ashamed to see myself like that – when I was very young and naïve. Afraid to look at my mémé, who was sure that I was a perfect angel, and that I would never be anything less. Obviously, that's unrealistic. Everyone makes poor choices at some point, but some nights I just… I lay here, and mine feel _really_ bad."

"Hey," Cosima reaches up to tuck an errant curl behind her ear, setting her hand on her cheek. "I thought we went over this—"

"I know," Delphine interjects. She smiles lightly, and Cosima is pleased to see that it is not disingenuous. "It's just… maybe it is not so much about feeling like a terrible person, and more just feeling like a _different _person altogether. Does that make sense? When I see myself in that picture—seven-years-old—I can almost believe that child grew into a completely different person. I just—I never envisioned this life for myself. I know my mémé didn't. It is difficult to think of her looking at me now and seeing some sort of stranger."

"Well," Cosima begins tentatively, toying with her earlobe, as if to tease her. "I bet she would be surprised by you, Delphine Cormier: brilliant immunologist involved in a top-secret human cloning conspiracy, charmer of equally brilliant American women." Delphine snorts, rolling her eyes. "Or, well, I only know for certain of one, but I'm sure you've unknowingly charmed many more."

"Cosima…" The brunette can hear the smile in her exasperated sigh.

"What? I'm just saying. Those are some fairly surprising attributes. Impressive though, too. Like most loving grandmothers, I'm sure she'd think, _Wow, my granddaughter has changed so much. But what an incredible journey she must have gone through to achieve this transformation._ She'd be hella impressed."

"That's an awful lot of speculation, you know."

"Sure, but, I'm a very good speculator." Delphine rolls her eyes again, smiling wider when she catches Cosima's pleased, cheeky grin out of the corner of her eye. She glances down at her lap, sighing.

"I hope you're right. I miss her very much. Sometimes I think I wouldn't really care what she thought of me, if only she were still alive." She sobers, after a pause. "I'd like very much to see all of them—my whole family. It's been too long."

"Where are they," Cosima asks, laying her head on Delphine's shoulder.

"Last I checked, Maman and Papa were still living outside of Paris. My younger brother, Mathieu, lives in Le Havre, near the beach. They are the ones I would most like to see. I haven't even spoken to them in a while."

"Will you?"

She seems to debate this for a moment; though, for all Cosima knows, she has already spent many restless hours thinking on this question. "I will call them. I don't know how I will explain my absence, but… it ought to be enough, just for them to know that I am okay." Turning her head, Delphine brushes her lips against Cosima's hair. "It doesn't seem safe to see them yet."

They are silent for a long moment. Finally, Cosima tells her, with a great deal of certainty, "I think we should be together. I mean, that we should stick by each other." Delphine lifts her head, looking down at Cosima questioningly. The brunette looks up at her nervously, and the thoughts, firing rapidly behind her eyes, are apparent. "You're so worried about safety; but it seems particularly _unsafe _to me, you being out here by yourself. If something happened, and no one was around, how would we even know? We could do nothing about it."

"So, you're going to stay?" Before the question even leaves her lips, Delphine knows that is not what Cosima meant. When her face falls, this suspicion is confirmed.

"Delphine, you _know_ I can't. I have to stay with my family—"

"_Your_ family—"

"Who _will_ protect you. I swear it."

"They hate me," Delphine laughs incredulously, rising from the bed. She runs her hands through her hair in frustration.

"They _don't_," Cosima stands as well, matching her pace for pace. "They disagree with the way you… went about a lot of things. So do I. But I _love_ you, and they know that. They also know that everything you did, you did to save me. Your intentions were good. They believe that."

Delphine doesn't exactly believe _Cosima_ – not fully. She knows that the others could not trust her on that alone. And perhaps Cosima is too blinded by optimism to see that; perhaps she is just ignoring it. Regardless, Delphine can't.

Still, she does not dwell on that point. Trust or no trust, she is still the lesser of two evils. It's not as if they would give her to DYAD.

"And where will we stay?"

"We'll have an apartment, somewhere near my sisters. We'll stay close, as a precaution, in the event that anything should… happen."

Delphine stops her pacing, and takes in a deep breath. She looks around her bedroom, taking in the bare walls, the cheap furniture, the downturned frame on the bedside table. After spending so much time running away, just trying to get _here_, to a comfortable hiding place, the thought of leaving again, of going back to the city where this all began, sends waves of panic rolling through her stomach.

Then again, looking past that, she knows this hiding place isn't really comfortable. She can't even leave her apartment for a jog without glancing over her shoulder every few steps, limbs tensed with anxiety.

"And… _my_ apartment," she asks weakly, in her last attempt at fighting. Now, it is Cosima's turn to roll her eyes. She steps forward, wrapping her arms around Delphine's waist.

"I think you can afford to break the lease. Am I right?" Looking down at Cosima, she nods, a slow smile spreading across her face. Hopefully, this will be the last thing she must break for a long time.

* * *

"_Go on, open it," Pascale says, her tired eyes glimmering as she slides the box across the table to the young woman sitting opposite her. "I won't tell your Maman if you decide to open the card last," she winks._

_Delphine grins, peeling the wrapping paper carefully from the box. "You always wrap our gifts so well," she says, tucking a curl behind her ear._

"_I've had a lot of practice, as you well know."_

"_Spoiling me?"_

_Pascale scoffs. "You were not spoiled. Simply loved."_

"_That's not what Maman says." Having removed all the paper, Delphine slides the lid off of the box, setting it down on the table. "Oh," she says, a reverent smile spreading across her face as she surveys the contents. "How many books are in here?"_

"_Ten." _

_Picking up one of the books, Delphine's eyes light up. "It's in English."_

"_They all are. I know how determined you are to learn the language, and I thought reading in it might help."_

"_It will… or, at least, that's what my teacher is always telling us." Delphine looks up suddenly, grinning fondly at her grandmother. While her parents had understood her taking English classes in school to fulfill her curriculum, they had mostly brushed off her idea of wanting to travel to North America after graduation. Of course, she's eager to do more than travel there, but they don't know that yet. Only Mémé knows that._

"_Thank you, Mémé," she says, leaning across the table to press a kiss to her cheek. She's much thinner these days, Delphine knows. It's very apparent when her lips graze her cheek, which was once so full, warm. A sudden pang of fear shoots through her stomach, but she ignores it. Mémé is here now, and so is she. That is all that matters._

"_Joyeux Noël, _ma bichette_."_

"_Joyeux Noël." Pascale smiles so widely, so brightly that, for a moment, it is easy to forget how sick she truly is. Delphine loves that about her, sometimes more than anything. She is the source of light in any room, no matter where they are. And though she loves many, and loves fiercely, when they are together, it is easy for Delphine to believe that she fills her whole heart. She has never known anybody like that before, and she'd be surprised to know anybody like that again. If she does, she is sure she will love them as wholeheartedly as she loves Pascale._

"_Here, there is one I must show you." With a bit of unease, Pascale stands, leaning over the table to dig through the box. From the bottom, she pulls a particularly worn volume, and hands it to her granddaughter._

"Sense and Sensibility_,"_ _Delphine reads, running her hand over the cover. "I have never read Jane Austen before. Is this one good?"_

"_It has been my favorite book since I was fifteen."_

"_Really?"_

"_Mhm." Pascale sits back down, sighing tiredly as she does. "That's my copy, actually. I own it in German, too." Smiling, Delphine opens up the cover. Sure enough, in a familiar scrawl, her grandmother's name is written on the inside._

"_I like that. It means more to me," Delphine says quietly, tracing the handwriting with her fingertip. _

"_I thought you might feel that way. You're far more sentimental than your mother ever was."_

"_I get that from Papa, I think," she chuckles, sitting down once again, opening the book to the first page. "Why is this one your favorite?"_

"_Oh, you know me. I'm a sucker for a good romance." Delphine grins. "And I like my romance with a bit of melodrama."_

"_Why?"_

"_The thrill, maybe. Or the peril. Love should feel like it could be lost at any moment, otherwise you might grow complacent."_

"_Is that such a bad thing," Delphine asks, setting the book down on the table. Mémé's tone is half-teasing, a bit whimsical, as it is sometimes wont to be. It makes it difficult to tell if she is being entirely sincere. Delphine matches her, but part of her is genuinely curious to know. She herself has never truly loved. Sometimes she wonders if the kind of romance Mémé reads about even exists. It seems so impractical._

"_Maybe not," she shrugs, "Not for some. But… I was married, and I was divorced. It's hard to keep something like that going. Maybe not for a year, but for ten, twenty? A lifetime," she laughs. "You have to _want_ to fight for it. Complacency does not bode well for that sort of passion." Her eyes turn fanciful then. It is a look so quintessentially Pascale—Delphine wants to remember it for as long as she lives, every nuance of it. "Boldness, is what you want, _bichette._" She picks the novel up from the table once again, turning it over in her hands. For a moment, Delphine can see her exactly as she was, forty, fifty years ago._

"_You have to love boldly," she says, impassioned, looking her granddaughter directly in the eye. "Even if that means doing things that are stupid." She laughs, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of her housecoat. If Delphine's Maman were here, she would surely be scolding her. At this point though, the girl knows it makes no difference. If the cigarettes make her happy, let her have them. _

_Lighting up, Pascale blows a thin stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth. "Incredibly stupid," she mutters, chuckling. She then nods to herself, taking another drag. "Eh, as long as you've got the conviction, _ma chérie_, things will always work out for the best."  
_

* * *

They've been walking aimlessly for the better part of an hour. In Limoges, Delphine never could've imagined doing this – just walking the city streets at a leisurely pace, enjoying an early morning. Of course, in Limoges she'd been alone. Things don't feel quite as precarious with Cosima's fingers laced in hers.

They'd spent most of the night poring over Professor Duncan's cipher. It's only been a few weeks, but Delphine feels they've made considerable progress. Cosima's health has remained mostly the same, but her appetite and energy level seem to improve every few days.

Most nights are spent like the last. A great deal of hard work, a fair amount of lovemaking, and if they aren't too exhausted, talking. A lot of talking. It has become one of their favorite pastimes.

After working on the cipher for hours, their work had petered out around three-thirty in the morning. They'd started talking about frivolous things – favorite movies, childhood vacations, bad dates – and had lost track of time. Before they knew it, the sky had begun to turn a purplish-pink, the sun peaking just over the horizon. At that point, Delphine had decided it was time for bed. Cosima, on the other hand, with an excited gleam in her eyes, had insisted that cities were never more beautiful than in the quiet early morning hours, with the light climbing towards the tops of the tallest buildings. When Delphine's jacket was tossed into her lap, all thoughts of sleep were dismissed.

The sun is mostly up now. They've passed a few nice shops, _Closed_ signs still hanging in their windows, as well as a few runners, and early commuters. Mostly it's just been them. Sometimes they speak, resuming earlier conversations. At other times, they merely enjoy each other's company.

Without thinking, they wander into a park about ten minutes from their apartment. Delphine has been here once before, with Cosima, Sarah, and Kira. She assumes Cosima is going to lead them to the nearest bench, but instead, she walks towards the swings. The chain clanks against the framework when she sits, looking to the swing next to her, then back at Delphine with a questioning glance.

They sit like that for a little, as the city starts to come alive around them. Delphine swings gently, heels dragging in the mulch, while Cosima, ankles crossed, twists left and right in half circles, chain crossing every few seconds.

"This doesn't feel like such a gamble, does it," Cosima asks lightly, breaking the silence.

Staring out at the city, Delphine smiles, shaking her head. "Not particularly. Not this early in the morning, at least."

"Yeah…" Cosima stops spinning, digging the toes of her shoes into the ground. The chains rattle when she wraps her hands around them, leaning into Delphine's swing. "I mean, it feels safe, right?"

"Of course." The building ahead of them is cloaked in cool shadows. Delphine feels shielded by them, protected from onlookers. Uncaring, even if she wasn't. When she turns to meet Cosima's burning, happy gaze, the sun is at the brunette's back. The radiant energy seems to peel off of her silhouette – her red coat, the curve of her flushed cheeks and lightly bouncing knees – rolling outward in gentle waves. Delphine feels enveloped by it, completely lit up. She grins, heart full, and assures her, "But no less thrilling."

* * *

_AN: Woo, last chapter. This one was supposed to be a lot shorter, originally, but I got mildly carried away. Hopefully it's good-long and not some terrible drag. Also, this had more angst than I'd originally intended, but... eh. I like writing angst?  
_

_Anyway, I hope everyone has enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Thank you to all who have, and to all who have reviewed, as well! It is majorly appreciated. _


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